


Crumble

by Khyeili



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khyeili/pseuds/Khyeili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It’s like watching a bomb go off a hundred miles away, too far to hear the panic and the blast, but close enough to see everything come crashing down.</em>
</p><p>Everything goes wrong.  They're the only ones left to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumble

Screaming, throat raw, fiery tears running in streaks down his ashen face, the gun’s recoil unfelt through the white hot numbness of his fury 

Smoke, fire, _fire_  burning everywhere, hot, oppressive, clawing at his jacket, his eyes, his throat, no way out, _no way out_

Sudden light, blinded by the helicopter searchlight running into his eyes and into his skull, too much, too much at once, firing blindly, screaming through the deep pain that constricts his bones, his eyes, too much, _too much_  

A car, his car, _their_  car screeches around a corner, skidding in front of him, bullets littering the sides like craters, the door opens, “Get in.”  Shouted through a familiar mask, deep voice echoing behind his eyes, comfort, _comfort_ , something to hold on to as the world falls apart, he picks off another two cops before jumping in, and the car screams forward, away from the police lights, away from this nightmare.

A delicate ‘click’ and the buildings light up behind them, the fire reaching for the heavens as the resounding explosion rocks the car, echoing through their bones like the last note to a horrific symphony. Helicopters spin out of control in the wake of the shockwave, police cars scrambling to move, their car, dark and unassuming, escaping into the night.

It’s quiet in the car.

The engine purrs softly, the click of shifting gears marking the silence.  The buildings grow further and further apart until they leave the lights of the city behind, the wheels kicking up the grimy dust of the desert.

Michael clenches his fists, fingernails digging into his palms, trying to eradicate the memories, the mistakes, the pain and the fire but it doesn’t work, it _doesn’t work_  and everything boils beneath his skin, it hurts, it _hurts_.

Ryan notices his shaking hands and pulls over, driving into the grassy lip beside the highway, far enough from the road to keep themselves from prying eyes.

Michael kicks open the door and rushes out of the car, feet scuffing roughly against the dirt.  He walks a few paces, hands on his hips, staring out at the desert in silence as he grinds his teeth so hard it hurts.

Ryan gets out of the car, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and leaning on the hood of the car, arms crossed.

It’s like watching a bomb go off a hundred miles away, too far to hear the panic and the blast, but close enough to see everything come crashing down.

Michael screams.

He convulses, face twisting in unbridled fury as he roars profanities at the ground, voice rough and bloody, harsh and wild.

“FUCKING _FUCK_  GODDAMN IT SHIT FUCK”

He wants to break something, to _destroy_  but there’s nothing around him and his muscles spasm with the effort it takes not to grab the knife at his hip and dig it into himself just so he can tear something apart, it hurts too much, it hurts it _hurts_

“GODDAMN RECKLESS IDIOTS AND THE SHITTING CUNTBAG COPS FUCK FUCK _FUCK_ ”

He can’t breathe, everything’s gone and there’s nothing left and nothing is real, the foundations of his world have crumbled and he’s left scrabbling at the ragged edges crying out for someone, _anyone_ but they’re gone gone _gone_  

“IT’S NOT GODDAMN FAIR, IT’S NOT FUCKING OKAY”

He tangles his fingers in his hair, gripping hard, trying to keep himself grounded somehow, knees hitting the dirt as he curls in on himself, forehead touching the ground as his voice breaks and wavers, falling apart bit by bit until there’s nothing left.

“Fu-Fucking…goddamn idiots…it’s just not fair…” he sniffles into the dusty earth, ugly tears spilling onto his glasses. His hands shake in his hair as he takes deep, shuddery breaths, wracked by raw sobs that he makes no attempt to hide.

Ryan steps forward, hands in his pockets, skull mask unfeeling.

“Are you done yet?

Michael whips around, fire in his eyes like a wild animal, fists clenched and wound back, ready for a fight. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?!”

“They’re dead, and there’s nothing we can do about it now.  Get in the car, we need to keep going.”

Throat burning, eyes stinging, he lets out a frustrated scream and socks Ryan in the jaw, a loud resounding _crack_  echoing into the desert.  Ryan stumbles back, stunned, letting out a pained laugh.  Michael storms past him, slamming the car door.  Ryan follows, starting the car back up with a low rumble.

They pull back onto the highway, and drive.

* * *

They stop by a run-down gas station further down the road.  Michael buys an energy drink while Ryan washes off his face paint, letting the red and black swirl in the sink as he stares at his bare face, ugly bruises purpling around his jaw. 

He digs his fingers into them, letting the painful sting wash over him like salvation.

He burns the skull mask.

They stay in a shitty motel somewhere off the highway. They’ve cleaned themselves up as best they can; bloodstained jackets tucked away in duffel bags stuffed with weapons, spare shirts tossed on and hastily smoothed out.

Ryan talks politely with the person at the front desk, yes, this is my brother, we’re on a cross-country road trip, I’m so sorry, I know it’s really late, anything is fine, thank you.

They take the keys and go to their room, fluorescent lights flickering dimly in the hallway.  Ryan tosses their bags onto the floor next to the bed, pulling his gun out of his jeans.

Michael makes a beeline for the shower, ripping off his sweaty clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor. He steps in, turning the water up to as hot as he can stand, trying to burn everything away but all he can see behind his eyelids is them, his crew, the Fake AH Crew, his _family_  falling like dominoes and dying like strangers.

_Jack, gunfire sending the helicopter into a spin, tail blazing, smashing into the street and erupting into flames._

He scrubs violently at his skin but it won’t go away, the blood that isn’t his, the bullets that should’ve been, it’s not enough, it’s not enough. 

 _Geoff, turning a second too late as the grenade falls at his feet._  

He turns up the heat, the hot water’s gonna run out soon but he needs it to sting, to sear the cuts and bruises littering his body, to keep the fire alive so he doesn’t lose himself.

 _Ray, toppling over the side of a building with his sniper rifle, hitting the fire escape on the way down._  

His head feels foggy, heavy like it’s out of focus, too close yet too far away, the air not quite reaching his lungs. He can’t breathe.

_Gavin, oh god, Gavin, bleeding out behind a blazing car, too far away for him to reach without getting gunned down, crying out from the pain, anyone, please, anyone **help me**_

Ryan rips back the shower curtain and Michael screams.

“What the fuck Ryan!?" 

Ryan steps in, fully clothed. “You’re using all the hot water. I’m taking my shower now. Get out.”

Michael growls, shoving Ryan back. “You big fucking prick, back the fuck off.” 

Ryan grabs Michael’s arm and twists it harshly, and the floodgates burst.  Michael roars, whipping around and punching Ryan square in the face. His head collides with the tile wall and Michael grabs him by the shirt, hauling him out of the shower and into the bedroom, slamming him face-first into the shitty carpeting. Ryan twists and kicks Michael’s feet from under him, and soon they’re fighting for dominance on the floor, Michael spitting curses and insults, rolling off his tongue like knives, sharp and aimed to hurt, water running into his eyes.  Michael manages to pin the larger man to the ground, straddling his hips as he slams his fist into his jaw.

He feels Ryan’s erection through his jeans and somehow that only makes him angrier.

“You were always a fucking glutton for pain you sick piece of shit.  I’m gonna fuck you like the worthless slut you are until you _scream_ for fucking mercy.”

Ryan smirks, twisting beneath him. “Big talk for a little man, _Micoo_.”

Michael screams, wrapping his hand around Ryan’s throat as he digs his nails into the skin of his neck until it bleeds.

They fuck in the motel room like animals, raw and rough, all shouting and anger, grief and fury.  They leave marks like battle scars on one another, bruises and scratches along the landscapes of their skin like graves.

* * *

In the morning, they drive.

They keep going, out to one of their old safe houses on the other side of the desert to pick up supplies.  They’ve only got two pairs of clothes, one ruined by blood and grime, and they need to collect themselves and plan what to do next. The fall of the Fake AH empire has certainly left a scramble for power in Los Santos, and they need to figure out where they, as the last leaders of the crew fit in all of this. 

They drive, stopping at rest stops when they need to, picking up some tacky roadside t-shirts so they can wear something clean, eating jerky and chips and dr. pepper and whatever shit they can get their hands on with what money they have on them. 

Michael is ready to fire an RPG into a gas station he’s so angry.

At every opportunity, Ryan’s doing everything in his power to piss Michael off and it’s working _far_  too well, careless shoves in rest stop aisles, offhand comments at his incompetence as a hitman, harsh smirks at his purchases and he _can’t fucking stand it_.  The only thing that seems to shut him up is a hard punch to the gut, or sometimes the jaw, when he’s _really_  pissed.

When Ryan comments on how he was surprised that Geoff let him stay in the crew when he could hardly control his own outbursts, Michael runs them off the side of the highway, kicking up dirt and dust.

He gets out of the car, moving to the passenger side, and pulls Ryan from the car, dragging him into the backseat.

They fuck on the side of the highway, hot and sweaty, clothes pushed aside, lube spilling messily onto the seats. Ryan’s on all fours, face pressed against the glass of the window as Michael thrusts into him, roughly biting down on his shoulder.

Michael’s voice is low, heavy, and laced with intent.

“Why don’t you just fucking _lay off_ , Ryan. Enough with the fucking shit talk.”

Ryan’s close, eyes closed, panting heavily as he shakes his head minutely.  His legs are shaking with the effort of keeping himself up, cock hard in Michael’s hand.

“N-No…I can’t…I won’t stop…” Ryan grins lopsidedly, turning to look over his shoulder, locking eyes with Michael. “S-so fuck you.”

Michael growls, slamming into Ryan until he screams through gritted teeth, fists clenching and unclenching in the leather of the seats.

* * *

They arrive at the safehouse at dusk, the sky painted a fiery red and orange, fanning out among the clouds like bloody brushstrokes.

The car kicks up a fine layer of dust as they enter the driveway of a lonely little house in the desert, out on its own several miles from the highway.  It’s quiet, unassuming, the paint peeling on the old porch, built strong and built to last, but still quietly wasting away in the unforgiving desert.

They pull their duffel bags from the trunk and enter the house, using an old code to get the key.

The fading light streams in through the windows, casting deep shadows as they step into the living room.  Everything’s covered with a fine layer of dust, swirling in the filtered light.

Ryan is quiet. 

Michael casts him a passing glance, shouldering his duffel bag and heading upstairs to put his stuff away and get some clean clothes on. 

Ryan sits down on the couch, staring into space, looking at nothing in particular.

Something about this place is just… _wrong_.

The last time they were here, Gavin and Ray had set up a six person match in Super Smash Bros. on the television, small as it was, and they’d all fought to the death, a lovely cacophony of sounds filling the air, Jack’s battle cries, Gavin’s screeches, Michael’s frustrated shouts, Geoff’s ringing laughter, and even Ray’s running commentary. 

It hits Ryan all at once that he’ll never see them again.  They’ll never play Smash again, they’ll never come here after a heist again, and he’ll never sit smashed between them as they all try to fit on the couch, Ray and Gavin sitting on the floor between their knees. 

It hits him that they’re gone for good. 

He suddenly feels so devastatingly alone, like every layer of the world, every complexity has flattened into one point and it’s right here and now and the words _they’re dead and nothing ever mattered._

He can’t breathe, nothing matters, nothing nothing _nothing_  it never mattered and he’s just the last bit of a dead empire floating in the void of space waiting to die and everything is falling apart and _he is alone_  

Ryan stands up suddenly, heading upstairs with firm footsteps, focused on Michael and Michael alone. He knocks open the door and throws his duffel bag down harshly in the bedroom.  Michael turns and looks up, in the process of sorting through his bag. 

“What the fuck took you so-“ 

Ryan leans down and smashes his lips harshly against Michael’s.  He yanks him up and deepens the kiss, biting at his lips as he grabs his hips.  Michael reaches up and yanks Ryan’s ponytail, eliciting a growl from the older man. 

Ryan picks Michael up and throws him onto the bed, pushing him down roughly against the pillows as he crawls over him, pulling down his pants and grabbing lube from his bag, pouring it over his fingers and pushing one into him. 

Michael gasps, writhing against the sheets, gritting his teeth as Ryan adds another finger, prepping him quick and rough, lube spilling onto the sheets.  He needs this, he _needs_  this.  He slicks up his cock, lining it up and pushing in, Michael letting out a pleasured grunt as he claws at Ryan’s back as he thrusts into him. 

He tries. 

He tries to fuck him hard, rough, uncaring and unforgiving but when his eyes drift across his auburn curls, his fiery eyes, his hardened jaw and his handsome freckles his heart drops mid-beat, he’s in too deep, too _fucking deep_  but he can’t control it, he can’t stop how much he wants to be around him, touch him, comfort him and he’s so _weak_ , so vulnerable. 

He chokes, heavy tears falling onto Michael’s chest, unable to tuck them away like the rest of him, breath shaking, arms trembling. 

Ryan collapses beside Michael, turning his head away from him, trying, trying so hard to hide, curl up on himself, go somewhere else. 

Michael pushes him over onto his back and straddles him, eyes firm.  Ryan looks up, tears in his eyes, confusion seeping in with the pain. 

He leans down, carefully setting his weight on top of Ryan, and holds him. 

Ryan sobs. 

He cries ugly tears, choking on his own breath, babbling out everything he’s kept in all this time, the hurt too much to bear alone, too weak to fight any longer.

“F-fuck, Michael…I, I ju-…just can’t, I loved them s-so much, and…a-and I always thought th-that I shouldn’t get too close be-because it could get…in the way...but it didn’t matter, did it? I…I f-fuckin’ cared, too g-goddamn much for all of you and now…now th-they’re all dead and none of that even m-mattered in the end an-and I wanna pretend that I never cared but I _do_  and I can’t stop all the nightmares and the what-if’s…sh-shit…” 

Ryan curls his fingers in Michael’s hair, still shaking through his sobs, struggling to breathe properly. He clenches his eyes shut.

“Michael…I’m just s-so fuckin’ weak…some-sometimes I have dreams…dreams where the h-heist went different, I-I didn’t mess up, I saved them.”  Michael sucks in a breath. “A-and wh-when I wake up, I think they’re st-still alive.”  Ryan’s face crumbles, tears streaming down his cheeks.  “But th-then it hits me.  S-sometimes slowly, sometimes a-all at once.”

Ryan gasps, blinking the tears out of his eyes, looking up at the ceiling.  “I’m just so tired of it hurting, and…I just want t-to be Skull.  The Mad Mercenary.  But I care about you.  I don’t want to, but I do.  And it hurts.”

Michael holds him, stroking his hair gently as Ryan falls apart, sobbing and gasping for air, choking on the weight of too much and not enough.

They stay like that for a long time.  The last light of dusk fades, leaving them in near darkness, save for the gentle illumination of the moon.

* * *

 Ryan takes a slow drag of the joint, letting the smoke smolder in his lungs for a minute before exhaling, leaning back against the headboard.

“The way I look at it, we’ve got two options.” He passes the joint to Michael, who’s laying in the blankets next to Ryan, one arm still curled up against him.

“One, lose ourselves to despair for a while, wander the earth, slowly come to reconcile with our losses, slowly recover, become yoga instructors.”  Michael snorts. “Or, we go with two, use grief as a fuel for anger and rage and become the most terrifying thing Los Santos has ever seen.”  Michael gives him a level look.

Ryan shrugs.  “We’d go down in a blaze of hellish glory in the very least. And at best, we’d get some enjoyment out of this shitty world before we have to listen to Gavin’s coin theory again.” Michael laughs, loud and harsh. He takes a hit from the joint before putting it out.

“Alright, you got me.  Let’s do it.”

Ryan smirks, lopsided and a little wild.

"Where do we start?"  Michael asks, moving to the dresser and pulling on his jeans.  "There's only two of us, and as badass as that is, it's not much of a crew."  Ryan chews his lip thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his leg.

“We need to find Lindsay.”

Michael grins.

They track down their old eyes and ears, holed up in a dingy apartment on a hidden back street.  They don’t bother knocking, Michael kicks open the door, unlocked, and heads deeper into the house.  They’re greeted by a tabby cat that walks alongside them into the living room.

She’s sitting on the couch, another cat in her lap, empty bottles scattered on the table, one resting on the cushion next to her. She looks up, bleary eyes clouded before she recognizes them. 

“You’re not dead.” She says simply, voice even.

Michael beams, wide and sincere.  “Great work Sherlock, glad to have you on board.”

Lindsay smiles, seeming to reach her eyes for the first time.  “What brings you here? My loving hospitality, or my wide variety of lap cats?”

Ryan pauses, hand resting gently on the tabby cat’s back.  “We’ve got a plan to get ourselves back to the top.  You were part of the Fake AH.  We’d like you to a part of this.”

He explains their plan in detail, Lindsay listening and nodding, eyes growing bright and fierce, lips curling in a Cheshire smile.

“I’m in.”

* * *

“Appearances are vital, especially if we’re starting from the bottom.  We need to intimidate our way up.  We already have the skill, we just need the _image_.”  Ryan grins, turning to Michael and Lindsay.  “People come and go, but symbols never truly die.”

Michael decides to go with face paint, black smeared around his eyes in an X with red in stripes across his lips, while Ryan chooses to purchase another mask, an echo of his old one.  He buys a black skull mask, of course, but he outfits it with a respirator, a radio headset, and a night vision function. Lindsay goes with a little of both, choosing a red opera half mask with black and red face paint, splitting her face into sections.

They get new leather jackets, sleek and beautiful, black with blue-silver highlights.  All three have embroidered patches on them, marks of who they are and where they’re from.  Michael has a torn up logo from a gang he was in back in Jersey, Ryan’s got Ray’s kill count on his shoulder blade, and Lindsay has a multi-colored striped patch from an old crew she was in that’s long gone.  The Fake AH Crew’s logo is over all of their hearts, small but bright, never erased, never forgotten.

They start out as mercenaries, tugging on some of their old contacts to kickstart things.  They’re brutal, merciless, with absolutely nothing left to lose. Terrifying with their deadly efficiency and their utter lack of fear.  They take any job they can get their hands on, even dirty torture gigs just to show how dangerous they are.

When ‘Mogar’ and ‘Ruby’ and ‘The Mad Mercenary’ are whispered in the shadows of the alleyways, they begin to build an empire for themselves.  Lindsay recruits a few of her close contacts as guns and tech, fleshing out their team into a full-blown crew.  They raid the hideouts of old rivals, watching their faces go pale as old ghosts come out to play. They paint their names in the streets of Los Santos with the blood of those who cross their path.

You could feel the fear in the news reporters’ voices, the twinge of uncertainty as they reported the mysterious death toll, the underground shift in power that, though unseen, still affected the day to day world.

They rob banks just to show they can. At this point, they’ve got their fingers in every pie; the drugs that go in and out of Los Santos, a near monopoly on the hitman market, and even a small team of hackers to turn their gang into a global presence.

They are unstoppable.

They become like a family, the three of them.

There are the others, of course. Kerry and Caleb, who worked with Lindsay back at RoosterTeeth.  Meg, a pickpocket accomplice of Gavin’s.  Griffon, an old pyro lover from way back.  Joel, a man with a thousand contacts.  They were family too, drinking together in the furnished basement of their hideout, laughing and playing video games until the sun came up.

But the three of them had gone through too much together, had burned in the fire and emerged anew, forged of grief and hatred, they were something twisted and broken and _powerful_.

And they had only just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha...boy do I love them three as a crew...
> 
> In case you were confused, Ryan was trying to keep Michael angry so he wouldn't lapse into depression or lose his fire to grief. He also wanted to be punished, in a way, for failing his team, so he directed Michael's anger at himself. At first, Ryan was going to comfort Michael through his grief, but it really didn't feel like GTA!Ryan even though it was cute haha
> 
> Lindsay's old team was RWBY. They were disbanded when two of their members were picked off by an opposing team's sniper, though some say Yang still lurks around somewhere...
> 
> Sorry for the sort of rushed ending, I wanted to put more with Lindsay and them as a crew, but I felt like it slowed down that section too much...I might write a companion piece about them three as a crew someday


End file.
